Perturabo irritably threw down the hoe in his hands, then lifted his head and stole a glance at the middle-aged man working not far away, drenched in sweat. He looked ordinary, his build not especially tall or broad, his skin darkened by the sun.
If he had not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed this man was—
"Perturabo," the man said without turning his head. "Keep working—you were the one crying that you wanted to help me, weren't you?"
The Lord of Iron's face instantly flushed red, and he shouted, "Who was crying?!"
"You."
"I was not!"
The man shouldered the hoe again, turned around, and smiled faintly. Sweat streamed down from his filthy head. He raised his sleeve and wiped it away, then said, "All right, are you planning to stand there and keep throwing a tantrum, or come over and learn how to plant wheat?"
Perturabo hesitated for a full three minutes before sullenly picking up the hoe and walking over—though he would never admit it, he had indeed said he wanted to help this man. But when he said it, he had not expected "help" to turn into this.
Why am I farming?!
"Watch closely."
The man ignored his self-pity. He bent down again and swung the hoe like a true old farmer, while beginning to teach Perturabo knowledge he had never known before.
"Generally speaking, before wheat is sown, the land must be deep-plowed and given enough fertilizer. Only then will it grow lush enough. At the same time, swinging a hoe also requires some technique. You may be able to rely on your strength to ruin this fertile, deep soil, but, Perturabo, patience is a very important quality."
The hoe sank deep into the earth, together with the man's sweat.